Chapters
by Ruralstar
Summary: Beth Whitman is unfinished business for Owen Hunt. What led him to break off their engagement with a two line email and what will he do in the wake of all that has happened between himself and Cristina Yang.


Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of ABC television, Shonda Rhimes and Co. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: This was written for the livejournal community "in_the_after" summer prompt challenge. My prompt was 'Anguish'

CHAPTERS

_Beth,_

_Things have changed and I can't see you anymore. I wish you all the best._

_Owen_

Owen sat back in his office chair and rubbed absently at the thick stubble on his chin. There were two windows open on his computer. A blank word document and the note to Beth Whitman, which had been stored in his email account for several months. He had only a vague memory of writing the message during the early days of his convalescence. The bomb which killed his entire unit had left him with severe burns, three broken ribs, a concussion, and innumerable bruises and lacerations. He spent weeks suspended in a limbo of hypersensitivity that defied the regimen of painkillers and sedatives coursing through his veins. Frequent nightmares wreaked havoc with his sleep patterns. He spoke little, and ate even less. Self-control weakened by stress and exhaustion had eventually snapped. For an indeterminate span of days coherent thought was little more than a scattering of useless fragments more imagined than real. When he surfaced and the physical pain abated to manageable levels, Owen discovered that he felt nothing at all in its place. It was not the right time to make a life altering decision. Breaking things off cleanly with Beth proved the one proactive step he was capable of. His remaining friends, his family, the army—all were beyond reach or understanding.

The sounds of the hospital crept beneath the door at Owen's back. Rapid footsteps, snatches of conversation and the hollow monotone of announcements over the loudspeaker created a low, incessant buzz. The reality that he was not strictly alone offered scant comfort as he contemplated the flashing cursor on the computer screen.

_Dear Beth,_

_I'm sorry. I never meant…_

"Damn," Owen murmured into the empty room. He had attempted to organize his thoughts at least a dozen times in the intervening months. To offer something in place of the useless words written half a world away by a man he barely recognized in the mirror every morning. How did one close a chapter in their life without a plausible ending? The clichés of white picket fences and two-point-three children were not necessary. He merely sought sense from senselessness. The pages of his life had been shredded and scorched leaving only a few words scattered among the ashes to remind him of who he had been before the ambush. Beth had never been exposed to such darkness. She existed in a bubble created by her father and nurtured for five years by Owen's good intentions. He cast a sightless glance to the ceiling. The fact that he had seen so much and she so little in an equal span of years defied explanation. Yet it was the truth and there was no changing it for all the love he had once held for her.

It was six full weeks after the attack before Owen felt strong enough to open the private email account he used for friends and family correspondence. Most of the messages he deleted without a second look. The addresses were unfamiliar. He suspected they were relations of his deceased comrades attempting to reach out in comfort or seeking clarification of the details surrounding the ambush. He could not face their sentiments and questions. Could only assume they thought the worst of him. The first and only emotion to manifest once the drugs wore off was guilt. Guilt for not being able to move fast enough in his injured state, for not braving the flames, hearing the cries, making the calls—guilt for breathing when they no longer could. It was more than Owen could stand so he cut them all away. Shedding names and faces like rotted flesh only to find more decay beneath until there was nothing but a hollow, dark space.

Then there was Beth.

Owen shivered and drew a deep breath to steady himself. He had not locked the office door and his stomach flipped uneasily at the possibility that someone might come knocking. A work colleague would be awkward enough. Cristina was another matter entirely and he hoped that she would stay away—at least for the next few minutes. He sat forward and erased the last three words of the document.

_I'm sorry. I can't explain what happened to me over there._

Can't or won't? Owen stood and paced restlessly around the small room. His fingers dragged across the desk and the cabinets, gliding over the doorknob but not pausing to turn the lock.

Lacking a maternal figure in her life, Beth had developed a strong attachment to his mother during the years Owen dated her. Sheila Hunt filled the void with her broad smile and open heart. They were in constant contact by phone. The school Beth worked at was only a mile down the road from Sheila's home and she became a regular Friday night dinner guest. When Owen was injured his Commanding Officer called the house during one such visit. At Owen's behest, his mother and fiancé were told only the bare facts of his condition. He pulled himself together enough to call the following Monday to reassure his mother that he was fine and would soon be returning to active duty. He never spoke to Beth again until the day after her arrival at Seattle Grace. Not even when his mother learned of their breakup and insisted he call Beth and explain himself. Owen misled both of them without a conscious thought of betrayal. Guilt lay thick and deep, but not for the lies. Rather for the man they had lost. The man that was now as invisible as the blood which had seeped into the cracks between the stones at the ambush site.

After deleting all of the emails connected to his dead friends only Beth's correspondence remained. There were 20 the first week. The subject lines indicating concern, fear and frustration at his lack of reply. The day she received his email there had been ten responses and then a single attempt each succeeding day. She quit altogether ten days later.

Owen scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck and sat down in the chair once more.

He had not read any of her messages. Merely noted their existence and then deleted them. It was easier to let her feel for both of them. To be hurt, angry and finally resigned saved him the effort…until the notes stopped coming. There was not a day that followed when he did not think of her at least once. Mourned what they might have had even knowing that Beth could never have weathered the storms slowly overwhelming him. His growing attraction—and need—for Cristina Yang did not lessen Beth's importance. Her gentle naiveté juxtaposed against Cristina's fiery independence forced a choice. Owen consciously placed Beth's memory behind the grey curtain which separated the restless dying persona of his Before from the listless ghost of After. There she was safe from the traumas he had never fully considered before joining the army. He left her a widow of the heart and thought he had moved on.

_Dear Beth,_

_I'm sorry. Sorry for walking away without telling you why. Sorry that you and Mike are going through his illness alone. I should have told you a long time ago. Should have told you so many things…_

The image of Beth standing uncertainly outside the elevator exploded across the back of Owen's mind. He coughed to draw air around the fresh lump in his throat. She had walked back into his life completely by accident. The panic attack that resulted was not his first but it was the worst he had experienced. Spinning like a top in the empty exam room, breathless and shaking with the clash of past and present. His mouth tasted like iron, brilliant pinpoints of light flickered across his vision and every nerve quivered and burned. All was crashing down and he would have collapsed if Cristina had not come through the door. Seeing her braced Owen momentarily. He leaned on the shelving unit and listened to the blood roar in his ears. Inexplicably certain he could step back from the brink as he had done during so many sleepless nights. Alone in his apartment it was easier. Blink to clear the mirage of nightmare from the walls and the smooth flat glass of the windows. Inhale deeply of the briny air drifting in through the two inches that perpetually separated sill and sash. Seconds would stretch to minutes. The nausea and dizziness would subside and he would fall back into an exhausted semblance of sleep.

Owen licked dry lips and forced himself to sit calmly as the memory unfurled.

With Cristina standing uncertainly at his back, he had struggled to retain the thin gauze of self control wrapped around his wildly beating heart. When she touched him it began to shred. He spun away in desperation but her touch came again. A light tap of warning and then she was embracing him. All he wanted to do was push her away and pull her closer. Caught in an agony of indecision her arms were a velvet vice around his shoulders. He had sunk to his knees. Bearing her down, not hearing a word she said, completely submissive to the comfort of her touch.

A tremor traveled down Owen's spine and spread out to tingle his fingertips where they rested on the computer keys.

Not telling Cristina about Beth had never felt like a lie. She was behind the curtain, nothing more than an addendum to the man he used to be. Mike's grim prognosis meant Beth's presence could not be avoided or ignored. Cristina would demand answers he was woefully unprepared to provide. The option of choice was eliminated without his consent. The next morning Owen awoke alone in the on-call room to a different kind of guilt. Keeping the existence of a former fiancé from Cristina seemed a more substantial betrayal than simply writing Beth out of his life. Even if withholding that information had not been a conscious or malicious choice. After a day of uncomfortable revelations and ineffectual explanations, he managed to pull Cristina aside. He pleaded for her understanding and acceptance. Once again assuming that he understood how Beth and his mother must feel about him. Oblivious to the danger his denial was placing Cristina in.

Owen glanced at the computer screen and frowned. A series of random letters had appeared in the open document. He lifted his fingers from the keys and rubbed his hands together to ease the chill and still the tremors. He hated losing control. Swore up and down to Dr. Wyatt that he would never let fear overtake him so completely again—at least not while he had any say in the matter. He flexed his fingers and returned them to the keyboard.

_Dear Beth,_

_It's been so long that I'm not sure you're even capable of listening after what I did to you._

Owen sighed wearily and erased the new text. Turning away so abruptly without explanation had shattered Beth's trust. No small thing in itself, virtually insignificant in comparison to the horrible night at Cristina's apartment. Owen doubted Beth would appreciate the situation in the same way. She _would, _in her own inimitable fashion, feel pity for Cristina. A sentiment Cristina would resent for all its good intentions.

The day that would signal a true turning point for all of them was rife with warning signs Owen chose to ignore. Izzy Stevens was preparing to undergo brain surgery and Derek Shepherd remained in self-imposed exile in the woods. In spite of the uneasiness Shepherd's crisis had stirred, Owen felt removed from their issues and confident in accepting Cristina's invitation. She needed the company and for the first time he felt capable of reciprocating some of the support she had given. They spent a pleasant, albeit bizarre evening talking and watching surgery videos. Hours of graphic cutting appeared to be Cristina's way of distancing herself from the unsettling realities of Izzy's cancer. A process Owen instinctively understood. He lay back secure in her warmth, expecting to sleep as soundly as he had in the on call room following the panic attack two weeks earlier.

The night terrors that erupted hours later left no trace in memory. Broken mementos, livid bruises on Cristina's neck and the tears streaming down his face told a tale Owen never expected to manifest. If not for Callie Torres, Owen knew he would have killed Cristina. He deserved to lose her forever and could not understand her attempts to support him. When she later abandoned him in the wake of their lovemaking the truth was finally clear. Cristina had lied to him, hoping love would be enough and realizing before he did that it could not mend what had been so carelessly broken. Owen sought out Derek Shepherd and asked for help. Painfully aware of the justifiable rage emanating from Meredith Grey as her newly minted fiancé nodded his assent and led Owen down the hall to radiology.

After he apologized to Derek for his earlier outburst, Owen tried not to think about what he had done to Cristina. Instead, he focused on the cold seeping through his scrubs from the exam table and on the click and whir of the machine that surrounded him. His mind shrank inward in retreat from the damage it had so blithely caused. Unfortunately, his skull was a much smaller space than required. His thoughts soon smashed right through the grey curtain that divided his existence. Beth would never have survived this terrible day coherent enough to beg him to stay, and strong enough to tell him to leave. Cristina stood tall: scared, angry, hurt and defiant of the dangers that lived inside him. The realization hit with such force that Owen flinched, flushing guilty at Derek's gentle admonishment from somewhere in the ether outside the scanner.

The next day felt like the first page in a new chapter of his life. The last had ended on a terrifying note but there was genuine resolution to be found in Cristina's tearful rejection and the long lonely hours that followed. Owen knew what he had to do even before Dr. Wyatt suggested it near the end of a particularly grueling session a few weeks later. Beth was part of a past he had been running from ever since the ambush. She could not be avoided and his reaction to her reappearance was proof positive that she should not be ignored. The impromptu wedding of Izzy Stevens and Alex Karev and the unexpected death of George O'Malley made the necessity of achieving closure even more imperative. He had to come clean with Beth. He needed to tell Cristina the whole story now that they were committed to moving forward together.

They both knew it was too soon to share a bed. Sharing a living space seemed an entirely separate matter however. Especially in light of the emotional minefield they were both struggling to navigate. Owen moved into the second bedroom of Cristina's apartment two days after Callie moved out to live with Arizona Robbins. The arrangement was working. Therapy, medication and a second visit to see his mother had given Owen a new sense of balance and clarity. He was confident that he could withstand the barbed remarks and icy stares of the hospital personnel who blamed him for O'Malley's enlistment. An act which ultimately led to George stepping into the path of a speeding bus to save a stranger instead of assisting Chief Webber in surgery. It would all blow over now that Cristina was willing to meet him halfway.

Two weeks after George's death Owen awoke in a cold sweat, the echo of his hoarse shout reverberating off the walls. He stared hard at the ceiling while his foggy mind attempted to recall the relaxation techniques Dr. Wyatt had taught him. Her advice came back with sudden clarity amidst a flood of disjointed imagery. The sounds of the city below and the rhythmic tick of the antique clock on his nightstand slowly reasserted themselves as his breathing and pulse rates decreased. Calm once more, Owen listened for any sign that he had disturbed Cristina and sighed with relief when the apartment remained quiet. Rolling to the side, he switched on the lamp and reached for the pad and pen on the nightstand. He described what little he could remember and jotted a reminder to mention the incident during his next session with Wyatt. Hopeful that the night was not a total loss, Owen turned out the light and lay back.

His mind drifted, picking out random memories and tossing them up for inspection. Some were pleasant and some were horrific, none coalesced into a plausible impetus for the nightmare. Wide awake, his frustration growing by the second, Owen could think of only one thing that might relax him. He hesitated to act, wondering how he could possibly explain himself. After ten more minutes of futile tossing and turning, he concluded that explanations were overrated. He eased out of bed and padded quietly down the short hall to Cristina's closed bedroom door. He slipped inside and sat down on the chair at the end of the bed. Focusing his attention on the spill of her dark hair on the pillow and the curve of her upturned cheek, Owen tried not to think.

Her expression was relaxed. The slight curve of full lips and the flutter of eyelids suggested pleasant dreams. He envied her serenity and longed to slide in beside her. To be reassured by the touch of compassion and companionship that lay so tightly entwined with their love. Owen dare not succumb to the urge. Afraid of getting too comfortable and falling asleep to leave Cristina vulnerable to whatever had awakened him. He had come far in a relatively short time. The nightmare, which now consisted of hazy, irretrievable fragments, was irrefutable proof that he still had a long way to go.

At breakfast Cristina gave no indication that she knew Owen had kept a silent vigil until first light forced him to leave the bedroom. He did not offer any information. The urge to tell was weighed down by the need to understand what had triggered the episode and how he should respond to it. Twelve hours later his shift was over. The nightmare still lingered as a vague unease that resisted all attempts at recollection or dismissal. For sanity's sake he chose to utilize its aftermath in the most positive way possible.

Owen fished a key from beneath a corner of the desk blotter and unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk. On top of a stack of papers lay his wallet. He retrieved it and eased two fingers beneath his license to dislodge a picture nestled face down behind it. Straightening in his chair, he pulled the photo free and turned it over to rest in the palm of his hand. Beth Whitman appeared younger and thinner than when he had last seen her sitting in the waiting room at Seattle Grace. Her small hands were embedded in the black and white fur of Sparks, her Springer Spaniel. Her smile was radiant and her blue eyes glimmered with tears of laughter. The picture had been taken during a picnic on a secluded beach. It was their special place and he had been unable to drive within five miles of it since returning from Iraq. Owen propped the photo in the corner of the computer screen. His fingers found the keys and he began to type without taking his eyes off of Beth's face.

_Beth,_

_You're right. You deserve so much more than two lines in an email after our five years together. I can't give you what you deserve, not anymore, and I'm sorry about that. I should have told you sooner. I should have trusted you to be strong enough to accept the truth. _

_My experiences in Iraq have fundamentally changed who I am. I am harder, sometimes colder and oddly more conscious of my patient's needs. I am also scared and very angry that someone—something—thought I should survive when no one else did. I didn't know how to explain, I still don't, and I'm sorry about that too._

_You have every right to hate me, especially now that you know I was involved in keeping Michael's cancer a secret from you. Don't hate him, Beth. He loves you and only wanted to make things easier. Though I'm honestly not sure how either of us thought hiding his illness could be a good thing._

_Cutting you out of my life so abruptly was wrong and I have no excuse for it. I wanted you to know that it was never a lie. I loved you and that's why I had to let you go. I hope you can someday understand even if you can't forgive._

_Be happy,_

Owen removed the picture from the screen and laid it on the blotter. He reached into another desk drawer and pulled out a piece of lined paper and a pen. The letter was short and he wrote with clean, quick strokes. Not changing anything as he copied it. He paused for a long moment when it came to the signature. Writing his name was a commitment to the end. No matter that the decision had been made months ago. He glanced to one side at Beth's sweet smile and then slowly lowered pen to page. A ragged sigh slipped out as his name appeared. The task complete he dropped the pen and leaned back, closing his eyes.

The knock on the door was light, as if the person behind it was not entirely sure they wanted to come in. Owen scrubbed a hand across his forehead and cleared his throat. "Yes?"

"It's Cristina."

The negation was poised on his tongue. Owen swallowed it back and opened his eyes. He sat up, closed the email and the word document and deleted both of them. "Come in," he said quietly as he turned away from the blank screen.

Cristina barely opened the door and quickly shut it behind her. Her desire to keep their relationship largely private was something Owen completely agreed with, but it still made him smile on occasion. Today it felt particularly good to see her answering smirk as she crossed the room and dropped into his spare chair. "I'm on call tonight," she muttered dully, looking at him through a fringe of dark lashes.

"I know. I saw the schedule."

She fiddled with a stray curl that had escaped the neat bun on the back of her head. "Checking up on me?"

Owen chuckled. "And you don't read my schedule?"

Cristina rolled her eyes but her expression turned pensive as she dropped her hand and sat forward. "I'm not very good at…subtle."

"I've noticed."

"Oh shut up." Brown eyes caught and held his blue ones. "You spent most of last night sitting on the chair in my bedroom."

Owen nodded fractionally. He should not have been surprised that she had managed to catch him off guard, _again_.

"Nightmare?"

"Yes."

"About?"

"I don't know."

Cristina frowned. "You don't remember any of it?"

"Do you remember all of your dreams?" he retorted, hearing and flinching from the defensive edge in his voice. "Cristina…"

She waved off his intended apology. "No, you're right, I don't. It's just that…I could tell you were having a…difficult day."

Owen arched an eyebrow in a silent invitation for her to elaborate.

"This afternoon…truck versus 10 year old bicyclist. No helmet."

The image of the child's small body covered in blood, brain tissue a grayish, wet glimmer on the back of his fractured skull, came instantly to Owen's mind. "Stupid, careless... When will parents learn that bike helmets are more than just a politically correct suggestion?" His fingers curled into a tight fist in a subconscious desire to punch something hard and feel the pain of bruised bone in defiance to the void of senseless death.

Cristina reached out and stroked his knuckles. Gently urging his fingers to relax enough for hers to sneak into the hollow and rest against his palm. "It's not the first time you've seen a case like that since you've been here but I could tell it rattled you. And I….I wanted you to know that I noticed and that I'm willing to listen if you need to talk about it. Or about last night."

Owen stood and pulled her up and closer to him in the same motion. Her breath was warm on his chin, her eyes dark and dew soft in the light of the desk lamp. His free hand pushed back the same errant curl and cuppedher cheek. "I know you are. And I will when I can."

Cristina stroked cool fingers over his cheek and down through the stiff russet hair of his beard. He bent and kissed her forehead and the warm pulse point of her temple. His lips rested there to savor the quickening rhythm and she shivered when his hand moved to the back of her neck and brushed the sensitive skin.

"You are an evil human being," Cristina protested weakly as she stretched to capture his earlobe.

She suckled hard and pulled away with a sharp nip. Owen shuddered as a tendril of sensation shot straight to his groin. He dropped her fingers and forced both hands up into the thick knot of her hair, tugging and teasing. It fell loose and cascaded over his wrists as his mouth moved to cover hers. Their lips met and parted, tongues darting in and over one another as bodies came together with unexpected force. Her hands pushed up his scrub top and splayed across his back. Nimble fingers drew languid circles that elicited tiny shocks. He gasped, caught somewhere between a sigh and a breathy laugh. "_I'm_ evil?" he whispered huskily as he trailed kisses across her throat and nibbled playfully at the juncture between neck and shoulder.

"Evil," she reiterated, shifting her attention from his back to his buttocks and giving both cheeks a firm squeeze. Owen jumped and she giggled. Her fingers dragged up the curves of his ass and drew forward in light, taunting strokes just above the waistband of his pants.

"You're on call?" Owen kissed his way to her ear and swiped his tongue over the lobe. "I think we need to coordinate our schedules better, don't you?"

Her neck arched giving him better access. "Unfair?" she sighed as he nuzzled the exposed skin.

"Very," Owen grumbled, referring to more than their conflicting hours. He meant to continue his explorations but the concept of fairness brought him up short. The need to demonstrate exactly what she was doing to him simply by existing remained strong. The urge to do it right took precedence. Feeling somewhat deflated, Owen brought his hands forward to cradle Cristina's cheeks and kissed her chastely on the lips. Their first lovemaking session had been in an on call room by circumstance. His crowded office was hardly the place to recapture any of the magic they had discovered that night. Seattle Grace itself was a reminder of some of the best and worst moments of their relationships. He needed a neutral location to try again. Needed to be sure she could, and would, sleep with him when they were both sated.

Owen cleared his throat and urged Cristina gently back towards the chair. He detected a hint of regret in her otherwise neutral expression as she sat down and crossed her legs.

"So what will you do tonight?" she asked.

"I hadn't thought about it."

"Maybe mail your letter?"

"What?"

Cristina indicated his desk with a thrust of her chin.

Owen clasped his hands and sat forward in the chair, lightly brushing his knuckles against her knee. "You saw?" The words were more statement than question.

"Only her name and the picture."

"I was going to tell you but I got…distracted."

"So did I" Cristina replied, a trace of bemusement lightening her serious tone. After a moment she reached out and tipped up Owen's chin with one finger. Ernest brown eyes searched his face without hurry or anger. "It was time you explained things to her," she said quietly before sitting back.

Owen dropped his eyes to the floor. "You can read the letter if you want to."

"I don't." Cristina shifted in the chair. "You're not the only one with a Before, you know."

The statement was so matter of fact it took a second to register. Owen looked up and caught the shadow of something dark and sad hovering in her half-lidded eyes. "I know," he assured. "And I know you'll tell me more about yours, eventually."

"Sooner rather than later?"

He smiled and rested a hand on her knee. "When you're ready."

Cristina nodded into her chest. She leaned forward suddenly and kissed him on the cheek, then stood and stretched her arms over her head. "I need coffee. Join me?"

"Give me five minutes?"

"Okay, meet me in the caf."

"Fine."

He waited until she was gone and then turned back to the desk. The letter lay on the edge of the blotter. One corner was slightly crinkled though he had no memory of leaning against it. Owen picked an envelope from the same drawer where the paper was stored. With a last, cursory glance, he folded the letter in three and sealed it for mailing. He wrote Beth's address from memory and left the return corner blank. Dropping the envelope down on the desk, he reached for Beth's picture.

Their relationship had been over for a long time, which made the surge of grief entirely unexpected. The force of it flushed Owen's skin with heat and briefly tightened his throat. He coughed reflexively and traced one finger over the curve of Beth's cheek and across her shoulder. He did not regret their time together and knew what Cristina and others might never understand. Beth was capable of extraordinary love and compassion. Given time she would have understood at least part of what happened and they might have been friends again. The letter would make that impossible. Owen's attention shifted from the picture to the envelope, mulling the idea of shredding it. It would be easier to let the freshened wound heal rather than tear the scab away for a second time. Easier, but entirely unfair to both of them. He shook his head and looked back at the picture. "Be happy, Beth," he said softly before placing the photo where his wallet had been and locking the drawer.

Five minutes later Owen returned from the locker room dressed in black jeans and a grey button down shirt. He shrugged on his jacket and carefully placed the envelope in an inside pocket. Errant thoughts of coffee and a sandwich made his stomach rumble. More diverting ideas involving Cristina elicited a twinge a bit further south. A smile settled on Owen's lips as he turned out the light and closed the office door behind him.

~THE~END~


End file.
